


Tuxedo Junction

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [10]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Love, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 10:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: “Do you want to get out of here with me?”“I just got married. My husband might not like that.”“He’s a lucky man.”“I’m a lucky girl.”





	Tuxedo Junction

Nix liked to play; it’s just part of who he is. He’d say something off-color just to see what Rissa would do. She’d roll her eyes and swat at him or thrust an elbow into his side, but her hands never stayed on him long, not the way her eyes did when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her hands never lingered, not unless she was comforting him. And that was something that neither one of them ever acknowledged, either before or after it happened. He’d find her or she’d come to him and, well…

The ‘well’ is because it’s the kind of thing you can’t really talk about. The first time it happened, he’d found her perched on a crate trying to look like she wasn’t crying. He put an arm around her and sat next to her. It felt natural when she turned her face to his chest and he liked the way her head fit against his shoulder. So he held her and she cried, and when she was done they both laughed a little uncomfortably. Her smile was watery but it was genuine, and it eased something in Nix’s chest to have put it there. Still, he thought that was it, one doesn’t generally go around embracing his friends. Even if they are pretty and generously curved.

But it did happen again, and the next time it was in his bed. Rissa really shouldn’t have been there in the first place; it was probably against at least seven different rules on both their counts. But Nix was running late, and Rissy came to find him. She peeked around his tent flap and he pulled her inside before sticking his head out to see if anyone saw her. She waited for him to find his wallet, sitting on the edge of his bed--he’s using that term loosely, it was more of a cot than anything else--and she must have caught something in his expression because she held out her arms. This time Nix’s face was against her chest. Rissy’s fingers were in his hair and her heart was beating in his ear. They stayed that way until they heard rustling outside, and then they reluctantly broke apart.

After that, it was just something that happened whenever things were particularly bad. Sometimes he’d find himself staring at her mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss her, touch her, what it would be like to find somewhere to lie down… But they were friends, she’d obviously loved her husband very much, and she was still haunted by the loss of him. Nix didn’t want to take advantage of her in a weak moment. Besides, he wasn’t sure if she wanted more than his friendship; she was affectionate and tentative at the same time. They didn’t even acknowledge the embraces, the cuddling, whatever you want to call it, even though it happened more often once he was billeted somewhere with four walls and a door. He could comfort her and play with her and take her places. He could talk to her about real things, too, and she’d listen, and more than that; she was interested and concerned. Sometimes, he’d hold her hand for a second or two. When they said good-bye, he’d hug her and she’d brush her lips on his cheek, but it was always quick, the way she would have been with a brother.

And yet, sometimes he thought he caught her looking at his lips, or her cheeks would flush, or, during the private moments they never talked about, her heart would beat so fast and hard he could feel it. (The way he could feel his own, when he lay in bed at night--or in the morning hours--and thought of what might happen if she was in the bed next to him, instead of him being there alone. The smell of bleach would waft up and he’d feel breathless and guilty.)

Then one day, he had asked her an innocent question that was really a suggestive one. Or maybe it was a suggestive one that was really innocent, who knows? Sometimes you can desperately want a thing and still be afraid it will happen. Her absent-minded answer made his heart pound in his chest. That day was a second beginning. He kissed her good-bye outside her hotel, this time on her mouth, and then walked back to his billet whistling.

Later that night, she wanted him. Rissy was so prettily doe-eyed, and her lips were full and pink once he’d kissed her lipstick away, and there were freckles under her eyes. She still looked innocent, somehow. She didn’t look like the kind of girl who could be acquainted with inner workings of the human body any more than she looked like a one who would fall into bed at the drop of a hat. Of course, he knew that she was a widow and that she wouldn’t be a virgin, but he was surprised at how she reveled in it, at how eagerly she touched his body and how soft and full and yielding she was under his hands. She had squirmed in his lap and he was so hard he was half afraid it would be over before it started.

Her small, capable hands were all over him, the same hands that soothed and comforted her patients were inciting fires in Nix. Rissy might have touched countless soldiers by then, but she didn’t touch them like this. She found his sensitive places and learned what he liked, watching his reactions through half-closed eyes. Curious, deft fingers explored the angle of his jaw, flanks and belly, his hips and finally his cock. He was trying to think of something, anything else--it had been awhile, okay--and he picked her up and carried her to the bed. The scenes he imagined did not hold a candle to reality.

For all that it really _hadn’t_ been about getting her into his bed. Because even though their particular interests dovetailed nicely, the best things had nothing to do with that at all. She would be unashamedly naked in front of him; she was the most naked clothed person he ever met. She trusted him, she’d listen with her chin propped on one hand or with her head in his lap. Rissy told him that she loved him easily and often, once they finally started saying it. He recognized love in the depths of her dark eyes long before he ever heard the words, before she knocked him into a chair, before he even knew what he was looking at.

What he’d told her that night was true. He wasn’t playing and he knew she wasn’t either, but that didn’t mean he thought that it would turn into what it did. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t more than a little overwhelmed, either.

That was why he fucked the French girl, and why he climbed into Rissy’s bedroom window later that same night. That was another beginning in an odd sort of way. He supposed it was when he knew that she cared for him despite his faults--that she accepted his faults even if she didn't like them--and it wasn't just his bank balance or the uniform or his face or a sense of security or how he could make her laugh. She saw what was underneath that.

There was another encounter when he was back in a tent again. He snuck her in and pulled her down onto the cot the way he’d fantasized about before. Liquid giggling and sighs, messy kisses and they were both wearing boots. That’d been the first time he wanted to tell her that he loved her, but it had been the beginning of June, and he didn’t want to say it if--Well, if. Maybe that’s backwards, but that’s the way it was, and, besides, it worked out alright.

When they were finished, he’d gotten up to button and buckle and Rissy smoothed her dress down. He walked her to the bus--he would rather have driven her back himself, but we can’t have everything--and they passed a group of men, jostling and elbowing each other. Their laughter was dirty, and somehow loud and conspiratory the same time, the way a group of thirteen-year-old boys would laugh. Rissy ducked her head into Nix’s shoulder and he put a protective arm around her, drawing her close, kissing the top of her head. He kissed her before he put her on the bus, too, long enough to make the driver grin and wink and the elderly woman sitting at the window glare at him.

He walked back whistling.

Nix didn’t really know his tent-mate. He’d come in three or four days before, informed Nix that his name was Perry, dumped his belongings on the empty cot, and promptly stalked off. His disposition had not improved at all since. Nix’s good mood wasn’t dented at all by the glare he got from Perry when ducked through the tent flap. Perry’s lip curled and he threw a pointed glance toward Nix’s cot. Nix’s heart sank when he followed Perry’s gaze to the used prophylactic on the ground, forgotten in the tangled blanket that trailed to the floor. The other man deliberately turned his back on Nix, muttering disgustedly. He undressed in jerky movements, yanked his own blanket back, and flipped the switch on his lantern.

There was a rustling from outside and Dick’s face appeared through the flap as Nix was disposing of the evidence. Dick took one look at him and started laughing.

“What? What’re you--”

“--I’m trying to sleep.” Perry interrupted in a tight voice.

Nix decided the best course of action would be to leave. He gestured toward the tent flap and followed Dick back out.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re wearing lipstick.”

“Shit.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“And you’re buttoned wrong. And kind of wrinkled.”

“Fuck.” So maybe it’s obvious what he had been doing. Who cares? Wouldn’t every guy here do the same thing if given the chance?

Dick gave Nix a tight little smile, a pursing of the lips. “How’s Rissa?”

“She’s fine.” Dick snickered and Nix turned on him. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not.” He looked up at the sky. The night was clear and cool but dark, the kind of night made for sneaking off with your girl. Or covert military maneuvers. “So it’s you and her?”

 “Yeah.” That was the first time he said it aloud, that it was more than just a bit of fun. Dick had known, yes, but maybe not known that Nix loved her. Maybe he was _in_ love with her. But mere days before the invasion of Europe is not the time to dwell on that. He needed to focus, not moon over a girl. Nix remembers how he felt of two minds right then; how he had hoped--like he knew Dick just had--that the weather would hold and how romantic the moon and stars were.

But it had been a good day and it was hard not to grin thinking about it. He’d had few stolen hours with his girl when he should have been doing something else, and that only made it more fun. The food wasn’t good, but the impromptu clandestine picnic was full of both teasing and mosquitos. She'd produced a can of peaches and a can-opener, completely deadpan. Their eyes met and they both collapsed into giggles. The sun started to sink and he told her he had to go to bed. Rissy said he was being awfully presumptuous. Nix raised one eyebrow at her and she gave him a throaty laugh, and then there was a romp on his cot. Thank God Perry hadn’t come back from his briefing early.

It was one of the best nights they’d had together, even though the blanket was scratchy green wool and the food had been liberated from the mess.  Rissy’s fingers twined with his and her head was against his shoulder. She smiled up at him with adoring affection. He could see she was scared on his behalf but that she was trying to give him a smile and not tears. It touched him that she was so considerate. It was light and fun, romantic, as if they hadn’t a care in the world, as if they weren’t balanced on the very edge of the unknown.

The other end of the spectrum was the stupid wreck of a night that he’d told himself he had to set her free of him. That he’d convinced himself that she didn’t need him and that she’d be better off, that horrible aftermath. Thank every god there could possibly be that she saw that he desperately wanted her, needed her, loved her. That was a beginning, too.

There were so many beginnings:  the day she stood nervously in front of him in boots and with a baby in her belly, the day she said yes, the day their son was born, the day Nix himself came home and she met him at the dock. Right down to today.

* * *

 

Nix looks at himself in the mirror, making sure everything is in its place. His black suit is just a half-step down from a tux. He’s got silver cufflinks and a silk tie, in a blue so dark it’s almost black, too. Dick teases him once again that his hair looks like it was parted with a ruler. Nix’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He is not nervous, not really. His face and his hands are white and clean, soft. He looks so young to himself.

“Ready?” Dick’s hand claps on his shoulder, warm, steadying. Nix wonders what the hell he would have done without him. That had been a wonderful coincidence, too. He’d known they would be good friends, real friends, since he’d seen Dick’s ghost of a smile out of the corner of his eye while Sobel was yelling about those fucking peaches.

“Let’s go.”

Nix takes his place by the altar with Dick beside him. Pachelbel’s cannon floats in the air, and then the bridal march swells. The door opens and the dearly beloved get to their collective feet. Rissy’s alone with no one to walk behind; Lise and Hazel are already at their side of the altar.

Rissy looks like an angel. No, a nymph. She’s in her stocking feet, toes peeping out from under the hem of her dress. Her bouquet is muguet and there’s also a wreath of it in her dark hair. Despite the dress and the veil, she could have wandered in through the waning sunlight from the woods outside. There are diamonds in her ears, a gift from Nix. She has a small bag, too. In it are one of Johnny’s handkerchiefs, her mother’s prayer book, her father’s service medal, and a toy car, relics of the people she came from, carried with her.

Clarissa looks young, too. Sweet and clean, innocent, not at all like a girl who’d once washed grey matter out of her hair or scraped blood from under her fingernails. God knows Nix doesn’t look like he ever slept in a hole in the ground or tramped through a swamp, three weeks gone from a shower.

She walks to him through a June sunset, through dust motes floating in the golden light. Her eyes search his and then she smiles at him. Nix’s responding grin nearly splits his face; Rissy wrinkles her nose at him and laughs without a sound.

Later, Nix will not remember one damn thing he said, or anything Clarissa said either. She let out a shaky exhale when he slid her wedding band on her finger. He does remember her light, sweet voice, how his name sounded on her lips, how she looked in the last of the sunbeams slanting through the windows. Her fingers were shaking when she put the ring on his finger, but her voice did not quiver at all.

He could hear his heart in his ears when she was done with her wedding vows. The priest sounded like he was talking underwater. Nix heard him say “…man and wife. You may now--” And that’s as far as he got.

Before the sentence was over, Nix has Rissa in his arms. At first, the congregation stifles laughter, but the kiss goes on. And then it changes from a chaste church-kiss to something more than that, but still sweet. Nix holds his brand-new bride, arms around her, hands at the back of her waist. It’s only when feet start shuffling and Dick pointedly clears his throat that Nix pulls back. Rissa comes with him and everyone laughs again.

When he looks down at her, she doesn’t have the just Milky Way in her eyes, she’s got galaxies upon galaxies. He takes her hand in his and then they run down the aisle together. The recessional is Ode to Joy, just as she had insisted.

There is no waiting limousine, just a pretty lemon-yellow convertible with a white top. Nix opens the door for her, scooping her dress in behind her. She’s laughing and breathing hard from running--he is, too, but never mind that. He pulls her across the bench seat, his fingers sinking into the lace and chiffon. She’s so soft underneath all her layers. When she pushes him back gently, her lips are swollen and the windows have started to fog.

“We should go,” she murmurs.

The wedding dinner is lovely and intimate. First are the hors d’oeuvres and champagne in coupe glasses. Then supper and toasts and speeches. After that comes the dancing and cocktails. Nix likes the balance they’ve struck, elegant and understated but comfortable. This is no society event, everyone present is dearly beloved.

The only extravagant thing is the cake. Icing lilies-of-the-valley and trailing green leaves climb up the tiers. A miniature bride and groom sit on top under a silver bell. It seems almost like a sin to cut into it, it’s so pretty. The cake is devil’s food with chocolate ganache between the layers. This might not be strictly traditional, but who cares about that, and, anyway, Rissy chose it because it was rich enough to remind her of truffles and chocolate-tinged kisses.

Nix is careful with the tiny piece of cake, careful not to get chocolate or icing on Rissy’s face or her dress. She opens her mouth and her eyes laugh up at him. It seems like it should be untoward, to feed her with his fingers in front of an audience, but everyone’s smiling. Rissy must be thinking the same thing he is, though, because she giggles and blushes when she feeds him.

Finally, when everyone has danced with everyone else and no one can eat another bite, the music is soft and slow. Rissy’s cheek is pressed to his shoulder. Her eyes are closed and he can feel her breathing against his neck. He bows his head to whisper in her ear.

“Do you want to get out of here with me?”

“I just got married. My husband might not like that.”

“He’s a lucky man.”

“I’m a lucky girl.”

He can’t help it. The kiss he gives her is long and lingering, his tongue slides between her lips. They’re not even moving anymore, he’s just holding her while everyone else moves around them. Rissy’s fingers dig into his arm and Nix pulls her closer. Someone finally bumps into Nix hard enough that he’s forced to step backwards.

Rissy looks up at him sheepishly. “Maybe we should go, Lew.”

“I think it’s time, yeah.”

The summer night is cool and clean. Little breezes play with the tendrils that have come loose from Rissy’s hair. Her veil floats behind her, pulled back from her face now, a silky, filmy thing with pearls scattered on it to match the pearls at her throat. He wants to put the top down on the car, but he can’t. She’ll never wear her veil again; he can forgo one summer night in a convertible.

Nix bends to scoop her up and she laughs and puts her arms around his neck. He feels drunk, but not from alcohol, he had three glasses of champagne but that’s all--maybe it should bother him that he kept so close a count, but he’s not going to think of that tonight.

He settles Rissy in the front seat and shuts her door. He’s whistling as he walks around the car, shaking his head at the tin cans tied to the bumper. The drive won’t be long, a little less than an hour. Driving will be a pleasure on a night like tonight. They can put the windows down and turn the radio up. Rissy can slide right up next to him.

Nix throws his jacket in the backseat as soon as he opens the door. His sleeves get rolled up and he runs a hand though his hair. Then Rissy is almost in his lap, loosening his tie and he takes the veil from her hair after all. It’s delicate and the windows are open even if the top is up.

A very short time later, Nix’s arm is over the back of Rissy’s seat and he turns to look behind him while gravel crunches under the tires. They drive away from faint music and friendly light, but he can’t think of anything but the girl beside him. Nix drives and Rissy does curl against his side. It takes nearly a half an hour for the tin cans to irritate him enough to stop.


End file.
